


and i'll hold in these hands all that remains

by sapphicbecca



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: !!!, Hurt/Comfort, Intricate Rituals, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Yearning, and i'm sad about daisy so now jon gets to be sad about daisy cause they were best friends okay?, and of course jon and martin are in love and handling it terribly, basically martin has a harder time escaping the lonely than he thought he would, canon-typical stammering, good cows one bed making tea you all know the drill, its the usual post mag 159-pre160 nonsense, rated t for a single curse word, some canon dialogue and much more!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22726654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicbecca/pseuds/sapphicbecca
Summary: “Daisy has - she had a ton of safehouses littered over the continent.” Basira fidgeted with her hands again for a moment. “That one is in Scotland. Address is inside there as well. You’ll both be able to stay there.”
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 50
Kudos: 378





	and i'll hold in these hands all that remains

**_i came here for sanctuary_ **

**_away from the winds and the sounds of the city_ **

**_i came here to get some peace_ **

**_way down deep where the shadows are heavy_ **

_september 25th, 2018, the lonely._

Martin was still too grey. 

Jon was studying him carefully out of the corner of his eye as they trudged through the sandy shore of the Lonely. Wisps of fog drifting around them had woven themself into the curls of Martin’s hair, nesting there briefly before slowly dissolving as the two of them kept moving. A quick glance down at himself confirmed to Jon that he seemed to be nearly back to normal, but in comparison, Martin was ashen and washed out, like he’d been left out underneath the sun too long. All his usual vibrant color had seemingly slipped away, leaving a pale impression of the man Jon had come looking for, and he was nearly indistinguishable against the bleak landscape surrounding them. Still, he was looking better and, at the very least, far more solid than he had just mere moments ago, so for the moment, Jon just resigned himself to gripping his hand a little tighter and continuing to stumble forward.

He was perhaps overly aware of the fact that he didn’t have an anchor out in the real world this time, although he had begun to think he may have gone about the anchor business the wrong way, the first time around. He’d listened to the tapes over the last few weeks and months and had started to form a much clearer idea of what - of _who_ had pulled him out of the Buried. Even so, if his conclusion was correct, it wasn’t much use if his anchor was stranded in the Lonely with him. 

_I really loved you, you know?_

And it undoubtedly was not the right time to dwell on everything that had been said. But Jon kept replaying the last half hour over and over in his mind, and he kept coming back to that. How Martin had been in front of him, just nearly in reach, and how Jon wasn’t able to hold onto him when he’d faded out of view. How before he’d practically turned into a ghost in Jon’s arms, Martin had looked at him mournfully, as though seeing him from miles and miles away, and admitted his love like it was something he was letting go of. But Jon had got him back and _that,_ that was the most important part. Not the sickening sense of shame and guilt turning in Jon’s stomach, not what Peter Lukas had said about the two of them, and not the fact that Jon had nearly lost Martin to the endless mist forever. All that mattered now was that Jon was holding tight to Martin and that they were going to escape the Lonely, anchor or not. 

Maybe Elias was wrong, about the Lonely being as good as death, because when Jon concentrated and reached out slightly, he felt in his gut the way home. It wasn’t something he could see, or something he could touch, it was just something that was there. Something he knew. 

The melting away of the Lonely was slow. When Jon looked around, all he could really see was endless sand or endless ocean, with no clear distinct line separating the two, but when he focused, the outlines of tall buildings began to solidify out in the distance of the mist, which was somewhat good news. At the very least, they wouldn’t end up back in the Panopticon. He knew neither of them had the energy to deal with whatever might be waiting for them back there. 

They hadn’t spoken since they had first started to leave, and Jon looked up towards Martin. 

“How are you feeling?” He asked, voice quiet and cautious. 

Martin just nodded at first, his lips pressed together. “Fine,” he said, after a moment. “Better. Just want to get out of here.” 

“That makes the both of us,” Jon said, exhaling. He searched Martin’s face for another moment and then closed his eyes. He thought back to cups of tea during late nights at the Archives, to being crammed in document storage with worms writhing on the other side of a thick door, to the first thought on his mind when he’d woken up from his coma. 

Around them, the buildings became a little less blurred, and the sounds of the ocean waves became a little more muffled. They kept walking. 

* * *

_Martin was in the middle of the ocean. One moment, he’d been in the Panopticon, facing Elias and Peter, and the next, that world had faded away and he’d found himself standing in knee-deep water that was murky and grey. All around him was thick fog, and he was barely able to see his own hands in front of him. The sound of ocean waves surrounded him, distant but encompassing. Time had turned to slush, and nothing made much sense._

_Martin assumed, with what clarity he still retained, that that was it. He was stuck in the Lonely, and that would be how he finished, lost to the endless fog forever. That was fine, he thought._

_But that hadn’t happened._

The Lonely had dropped them in the middle of a busy London street. Martin nearly collapsed as the world suddenly snapped into shape around him, the cacophony of sound and sight piling up into something unbearable. After being in the numbing emptiness of the Lonely for so long, the screeching car horns were deafening, the morning sun was blinding, and the thick crowds choked him. Martin immediately squeezed his eyes shut to try and block out the unforgiving clamor coming from all directions. But one horn seemed to be blaring much louder than the others, and without thinking, Martin turned instinctively to the sound. He then let out a surprised grunt as Jon grabbed him around the waist and threw them both off of the street, and out of the way of the oncoming bus. They toppled unceremoniously onto the sidewalk, and Martin let out a low groan. The bus driver leaned on the horn again as they passed, and Martin heard Jon grumble something annoyed in response. Jon turned to Martin, and the hard edge in his eyes softened as he looked him over. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

“I…yeah,” Martin said. He sat up and rubbed his neck. The city managed to heavily piece itself together in front of him, the confusion of suddenly _feeling_ everything again beginning to finally die down. He still had a pretty strong headache, though. 

“I suppose there are worse places the Lonely could have dropped us,” Jon said, standing up. He stretched a hand out to Martin once more, and Martin took it. There was a pause once they were both standing, and Jon gave him a hurried glance that was almost… _skittish_ , but Martin held on. He needed to. He could still feel the Lonely, lingering in the corner of his eye, breathing over his shoulder, whispering indistinctly in his ear, and Martin wasn’t going to let go of the one person who he knew was grounding him here.

“How far are we from the Institute?” Martin craned his head, trying to glimpse a street sign amidst the crowds. 

“Not far enough,” Jon muttered. He fished in his pocket with his free hand and brought out his phone. Martin watched as he browsed through his contacts and called Daisy. 

Twenty short minutes later, Martin was squeezed into a booth with Jon at an out of the way and half-empty diner. The seat across from them was empty. Martin’s arm was pressed up against Jon’s, and he silently examined the coffee stains on the table in front of him. 

The door at the front jingled, and Basira sat down in front of them. Her jacket was ripped at the shoulder, and she had a nasty-looking new scratch across her cheek. She was also covered in grime, and the waitress who’d sidled over gave her a sideways glance as she placed menus down, which everyone ignored. Basira nodded shakily at both of them across the table. Her hands were trembling as she placed them in front of her. Jon glanced quickly at the door and around the diner before turning back to Basira, distress beginning to etch itself across his face.

“Where’s-” 

“Gone,” Basira snapped, the anger in her voice flaring and dying in a second. She paused to take an unsteady breath and close her eyes. Her hands stilled for a brief moment before she spoke again. “Between…Julia, and Trevor, and that thing that wasn’t Sasha, we couldn’t - so, Daisy, she - she had to use the Hunt. So she’s gone. She has to be. She _needs_ to be.” 

“Right,” Jon said quietly. His shoulders slumped and he looked away, closing his eyes briefly. Martin saw him attempt to fight off a pained look. They all stared down at the table and no one spoke. 

Martin fidgeted with his hands in his lap. He was intruding on this quiet, private moment of grief and he knew it. He felt displaced, like someone had shoved him into the wrong slot, the wrong moment. He knew, vaguely, from whispers and glances and almost walking into the wrong rooms, that Jon and Daisy had grown close after escaping the Buried together. And he knew that Daisy and Basira, well - Martin hadn’t ever seen two people with such intense commitment to each other. But Martin hadn’t really known Daisy, not like these two had.

He sat in silence with the other two, trying desperately not to feel excluded in the moment. It _wasn’t_ about him. Daisy was as good as dead, again, and that was far more important than whatever insecure feelings were bubbling up from the worst parts of him. But that awful slithering loneliness slinking over his shoulder refused to dissipate back into the recesses of Martin’s subconscious, instead choosing to remind Martin he wasn’t wanted here, not right now. He was not supposed to be here. 

Martin shifted uncomfortably in the tight seat, and finally, Basira spoke again. 

“Anyway, the Institute is a mess right now - it’s crawling with cops and worse, so the two of you need to stay away.” 

Martin made a sound of protest in his throat as Jon whipped his head up to stare at Basira and say “You can’t believe we would just-”

“You don’t have a choice,” Basira said, adamant. “You’re both wanted for questioning by the police, Elias is back and creeping around, and it isn’t safe for you two.” 

“It’s not exactly safe for you, either,” Jon argued, “and where would we even go? I’m sure Elias - _Jonah_ knows where we both live.” 

In response, Basira slid an envelope across the table. Jon shot her a quizzical look as he opened it up and a key fell into his scarred palm. 

“Daisy has - she _had_ a ton of safehouses littered over the continent.” Basira picked at her hands again for a moment. “That one is in Scotland. Address is inside there as well. You’ll both be able to stay there.” 

“Basira-” 

“Jon.” Martin watched as Basira locked in on Jon’s gaze and let out a sigh. “Listen, I need to get back to the Institute. Most of the police there are sectioned. I can try to talk to some of them, get information, lead them away from you two. Just…call me when you get to the safehouse. I’ll try to keep in touch as best I can.”

“Stay safe,” Jon said quickly, as Basira stood to leave. 

“Yeah,” she said, and gave them both a hollow smile. Then she was gone, out the door, down the street, back to the Institute.

Martin watched her go, trying to spot the moment before she disappeared completely into the crowd. He realized, with sudden and considerable discomfort, he hadn’t said anything during the entire conversation. Next to him, Jon sagged, resigned, into the cushion of the booth. Martin turned and hesitantly reached out for the envelope, taking a look at the address. 

“I’ve never been to Scotland,” he murmured. Jon turned to him, looking surprised. 

“Yeah?” Jon said. He studied the address over Martin’s shoulder. “Basira was right. This place is almost completely off the grid.” 

Martin glanced down at Jon. “Did you just happen to know that, or did you _Know_ that?” 

“I’ve never heard of it before,” Jon admitted. He scratched the back of his head. 

“If we’re going to try and completely disappear, or whatever,” Martin started, “do you think maybe you should try to _not_ Know things anymore?” 

Jon narrowed his eyes up at Martin. “It’s not exactly something I can control,” he said slowly. 

“I’m not stupid, I _know_ that,” Martin said, suddenly frustrated, “but you can at least try, right?” 

Jon frowned. “I didn’t say you were-” He took a breath and looked down at the table, studying the key still laying on top of the envelope. “Yes. I can try.” 

“Good,” Martin said softly. He deflated a little back into the seat, the abrupt and unexpected irritation leaking out of him. 

Next to him, Jon exhaled and then stood up out of the booth. “We’d better get going. It’s a ten-hour drive. If we hurry, we can stop at both our flats before leaving the city.” 

Martin nodded wearily, and stood up, before realizing that he and Jon were now suddenly sandwiched together between tables, staring at each other wide-eyed. 

“Um-” he said, eloquently, and sucked in a breath. Jon was looking up at him, eyebrows tilted up, concern written all over his face. Martin began to hurriedly shuffle over towards the door, but something started to twinge in his chest. For the first time since leaving the Lonely, he noticed, he wasn’t holding onto Jon, wasn’t clutching his hand, wasn’t pressed up against him in a too-small booth. Martin turned hastily back to look at Jon, whose expression of concern had only deepened, and despite the fact that Jon was only inches away, there was a sinking, wretched feeling in Martin’s stomach. All the terrible things that had been whispering to him began to rise to a crescendo in his ears, and Martin could swear he saw fog start to roll in, out in the distant London streets. The Lonely was coming back to take him again, and the sound of high-pitched static began to squeal around him, and then - it stopped. 

Jon’s hand was resting on Martin’s elbow. Martin stared at it with wet eyes. 

“Martin…” Jon said. His voice was quiet and concerned, filled with trepidation. Martin just closed his eyes, unable to voice any of what was running through his head, and reached down to grab Jon’s hand. Jon startled for a second but quickly gave it an encouraging squeeze. He then tugged him along, and led Martin out of the diner. 

* * *

The car ride to Scotland was long and monotonous. Once they’d both grabbed the bare minimum from their respective apartments, Jon got behind the wheel and Martin passed out the second he hit the passenger seat. The car was rolling through seemingly endless fields now, illuminated only by the pale pink glow of the sunset. Jon had the radio off, not wanting to wake Martin from his much-needed slumber. Out here they hadn’t been able to pick up much but fragmented static, anyway. Well. He’d actually somehow managed to tune into an episode of _The Archers_ , but he couldn’t - he wasn’t ready to start thinking about what Daisy had done yet. He had too much he needed to finish before he could let all that come crashing in. Still, some untouchably cavernous thing opened and ached in his chest as he’d reached to turn the episode off.

The car wasn’t completely silent, though. Besides the grumbling engine, Jon had one window cracked open, and the cool autumn air and white noise of the quiet evening outside filled the small car. The slight breeze ruffled his already messy hair, which he’d given up trying to pin back around the first hour of their road trip.

Jon risked a quick glance from the road to look over Martin once more. He was still completely asleep, awash in the sunset’s rosy light, now wearing a faded sweatshirt he’d gotten from his flat. He was looking better, less grey with more color filling out his freckled cheeks, but Jon couldn’t shake the memory of the fogginess he’d glimpsed in Martin’s eyes at the diner, the way he’d faded into the background during their conversation with Basira, and, most terrifying of all, the subdued panic on his face when they’d both stood up and away from each other, like he’d suddenly been untethered and was about to float out to sea. 

He’d gotten Martin out of the Lonely, yes, he’d gotten rid of Peter Lukas, who had ruthlessly pushed Martin into it, yes, but he hadn't gotten completely rid of the Lonely’s grip on Martin. Jon could tell - or perhaps he just Knew - that it lingered around him, a cloud of solitude and insecurity, refusing to leave, whispering dreadful things into Martin’s ear.

Jon sighed. That wasn’t something he could have just figured out from being around Martin these past few hours. He did know, however, from simple and normal observation, that physical touch seemed to keep Martin calm and grounded in the correct plane of reality, and so he’d held onto Martin all throughout escaping London.

Here in the car, though, the seats were separated and Jon had both hands on the wheel. But the roads were empty and not exactly complicated to navigate. Jon chanced yet another split-second glimpse away from the road, and moved one hand off the wheel, placing it softly on Martin’s wrist, which was draped lazily over the armrest. He could feel Martin’s pulse through his fingertips - a slow and steady beat, a reminder that he was here, that they were _both_ still here. That they were both still alive. And that, Jon mused, might be all that he ever really needed to know. 

* * *

“Well,” said Jon. They were standing in the doorway to Daisy’s safehouse, shoulders brushing together. The sun had gone down hours ago, and a chill was setting in. 

“Right,” Martin said. He reached in and flicked on the lights. A single ceiling lamp shakily blinked on, and illuminated the small room in front of them. Martin blinked, surprised. His first thought was how… _cozy_ it seemed. He supposed in his head, when he thought of a safehouse, especially one of Daisy’s, he’d been thinking of some sort of covert underground concrete structure, filled with booby traps and insane security measures. Probably stock full of weapons, cans of non-perishable foods, and some very stiff cots. Instead, Martin was standing in the sitting room of a little cottage that actually looked like it belonged in the Scottish highlands. By the door was a well-worn, rust-colored couch that looked immensely comfortable, which was sitting next to an empty coffee table and a simple brick fireplace with a few books lined up on the mantel. Across the small room was a wooden dining table, with a few cushioned chairs arranged haphazardly around it, and a mostly empty bookshelf in the corner. The floor was mostly covered by a massive woven rug, but underneath was creaky wood, leading out into a darker hallway, where Martin assumed the kitchen, bathrooms, and bedrooms would be. The cottage was cramped, a bit cold at the moment, and very dusty, but to Martin, it already felt like a home. 

Martin took a few steps in and set his duffel bag by the coffee table. Jon followed suit, and then placed his palm reassuringly on the small of Martin’s back. 

“It’s…actually quite nice here,” Martin said. 

Jon hummed softly. “It needs a bit of work, but it’ll do well, I think.” 

“A solid dusting is definitely on the agenda,” Martin agreed. 

“But for tomorrow,” Jon said, looking up meaningfully. “It’s late. We should get some sleep.” 

Martin nodded. Despite sleeping for most of the car ride up, he still found himself completely sapped of energy, and his eyes were starting to grow heavy once more. He picked his duffel bag back up and plodded down towards the dark hallway, Jon right behind him. 

They passed another light switch, which Martin turned on, and another ceiling light flickered slowly on above them. Martin poked his head in the doorways as he walked by. First door on the left was the kitchen, which at a quick glance looked exceptionally empty. Next door on the right was the bathroom with a pink tiled floor and a big clawfoot bathtub. Finally, the last door on the end was the bedroom.

 _Oh,_ Martin thought. There was only one bedroom. He glanced around for stairs that might lead to more rooms, despite knowing there weren’t any. Then he took a breath and pushed the door open. There was one bed, as he expected, taking up most of the room, with a thick quilt thrown over the floral patterned sheets. A single mirror leaned against the other wall, and there was another rug thrown under the bed. There was a single nightstand, holding only a battered alarm clock and a rather retro-looking radio. There wasn’t a wardrobe or closet in sight, so Martin just plopped his bag down by the foot of the bed and shoved his hands in his pockets. Jon peeked around from behind him and took in the room. He slipped past Martin and placed his bag on the other side of the bed, then hopped onto the mattress and began taking his shoes off.

“So, I can just take the couch,” Martin said quickly, face flushing.

“What?” Jon turned to look at him, eyebrows scrunched. “Why?”

Martin hesitated. “Well, if there’s only one-” 

“It’s big enough for both of us, if - if you’re alright with that,” Jon said, hurrying through the last few words. 

“Well, I…I wouldn’t want to, uh, if you didn’t, um-” 

“Besides,” Jon added, pointedly, “we _both_ just got out of the Lonely. I don’t exactly think it’s a good idea to sleep on opposite sides of the house.” 

“Right. Yeah.” Martin took his hands out of his pockets. He blinked again. “I’ll, um. Yep.” He reached down and unzipped his duffel bag, rummaging around for his toothbrush, and found it buried at the bottom. As Jon continued to untie his shoes, Martin grabbed the toothbrush and quickly walked back down the short hallway into the bathroom. He closed and locked the door behind him, and leaned up against the sink, toothbrush still clutched tight in his fist. He looked up, and his gaunt reflection stared back at him through the dusty mirror. For the first time in at least a few months, Martin took a moment to study himself. 

For starters, he looked like _shit._ His hair was a complete disaster, all mussed up and dirty, although from the tunnels or the Lonely or the London streets or sleeping during the car ride up, he didn’t know. He was paler than he’d ever remembered seeing himself, but he could probably blame that on the Lonely. The bags under his eyes were darker, a stark contrast again his pale skin, and were more prominent than they’d ever been, even after working in the Archives for so long. He still had on his threadbare sweatshirt he’d grabbed from his flat, and he had no intention of changing before going to bed. 

And he was alone. 

The abrupt thought stuck in Martin’s throat, a half-strangled, half-swallowed sob. His knuckles were white, clinging to the sink, and he was alone. He had run from the bedroom and locked the bathroom door and he was alone. Was his vision going fuzzy at the edges, tinged white with panic, or was the fog back, creeping up out of the bathtub to pool at his feet? 

_Martin was in the middle of the ocean. How odd that was, but how sweetly comforting. The endless white and grey rolled over him, gentle waves slowly guiding him further into the nothingness. Someone had been talking to him before. Who was that? Could they still be there? Martin didn’t know, but he was beginning to realize he didn’t really care._

_He remembered he’d said something, to that person who might have been there. A confession of some sort, maybe. When he’d said it, he knew he had felt something, some deep way about it, but it was a feeling that just got washed away anyway by the soft fog. That was alright, he thought. It was easier not to feel. Easier to just sit there, to enjoy the unending static, to let go of caring, to just exist and not have to do anything about it. No fear here, no danger or love, either. He was lonely, yes, he was completely and utterly alone, but it was so much easier to just be that than…whatever he had been before._

Martin dropped the toothbrush and promptly turned to the locked door, frenzied and terrified, grappling with the ancient lock until it popped open. He wrenched the door open and tore back down the hallway, running into the bedroom. He climbed clumsily onto the bed and began to immediately reach out for Jon, hoping for any sort of reminder that he wasn’t actually alone, any sort of touch to ground him, but he faltered at the last second and his outstretched hand stopped an inch from Jon’s shoulder. 

Jon had jumped at the sudden movement though, and whirled around, clutching only a shoe. His frantic expression stumbled and slipped away as soon as he saw Martin sitting forlornly on the bed. 

“Martin, wh-what - is everything al- Martin?”

Martin brought his hand back, and pulled his knees into his chest. “Sorry,” he mumbled. 

“What happened?” Jon climbed back onto the bed, and placed his scarred hand on Martin’s shoulder. Martin glanced at it before looking back down at his knees. 

“I don’t…” Martin shook his head. “I just...it’s like I’ve still got one foot in the Lonely. The second I’m alone again, I swear I can feel it surrounding me, and I see the fog rolling in out of the corner of my eye, and I-” He made a choked sound and the tears he’d been trying so hard to prevent began to roll down his cheeks. 

In the back of his mind, he wondered dimly whether he was really crying over just this or if the past few months were finally sinking in. Probably both. 

Jon shifted up and wrapped Martin into a hug once more, mirroring the way he’d held him when they were still back in the Lonely. Martin’s breath hitched in surprise, but he readily leaned into the touch. The warmth filled him up, head to toe, and he remembered, he was here, and he was with Jon. He wasn’t alone. There was no fog creeping around the corner, and the Lonely wasn’t here. 

“I won’t let the Lonely take you,” Jon said, and the fierceness in his voice made Martin’s heartbeat stutter. 

“I know,” he said into Jon’s shoulder. 

“So tell me,” Jon continued, still holding on, “whenever you feel it coming back, and I’ll be there. I won’t leave you alone.” 

“Yeah, I - I will.” Martin pulled back and wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Jon watched for a second before leaning back over the bed, reaching into his bag, and bringing out a tissue to offer to Martin, who accepted it with a teary smile. Jon returned the smile and, scooting closer, let his hand rest on Martin’s back. 

Martin’s dreams that night were empty. He _was_ dreaming, there just wasn’t anything there. He strained his ears and could hear the lull of waves crashing against the shore in the distance, but couldn’t see the accompanying tide that rushed in, couldn’t feel the sand between his toes. All he could see was that _stupid_ fog, rolling around him and wrapping him up. Looking down, he couldn’t even see himself. All he could see was endless white and grey stretching forever and-

Jon. He could see Jon. 

Martin blinked. He must have woken himself up in his panic and he was staring at Jon. His return to Lonely had been nothing but a bad dream this time, despite the fact that his reality seemed far more dreamlike. He also must have turned over in his sleep, because when he’d drifted off he’d been staring out the window at the sliver of a moon hanging in the night sky, but now he was facing Jon, who was fast asleep, turned towards him, greying hair spilled out over the pillow. He actually looked a lot less stressed while he was sleeping, Martin thought, and he realized this must be the first time he’d seen Jon sleep in an actual honest-to-god bed, not passed out at his desk at some ungodly hour or curled up on the rigid cot in document storage. Real sleep looked good on him, maybe even made him look closer to his real age. Martin smiled to himself. 

The rest of his senses slowly returned as he began grow more awake, and he realized Jon’s fingers were resting lightly on the inside of his wrist. The delicate touch felt heavy on Martin, though, like all his weight being held down just in that one spot. Even asleep, Jon was anchoring him, keeping him calm anytime his thoughts tried to drift back to the bleak wasteland of his dream. Martin let out a slow trembling breath he hadn’t meant to hold in. Jon shifted next to him and cracked open a weary eye. 

“Sorry,” Martin whispered quickly, “go back to sleep.” 

“Wh- what time s’it?” Jon murmured, his words slurred and drunk with sleep. 

Martin turned to look out the window and the night sky looked back at him, littered with more stars than could ever be visible in London. “Still nighttime, so, sleep,” he said.

“Yeah,” Jon mumbled, sluggish. He moved closer as he stretched out lazily and then relaxed, now pressed up completely against Martin’s side. His hand ended up atop Martin’s chest, thin fingers slowly uncurling, and his chin lay tucked in the base of Martin’s neck. For all that he moved like a ridiculously flexible cat while sleepy, molding himself up into Martin, Jon was really quite bony. But Martin didn’t mind, not really, and he lay completely still, listening carefully as Jon’s breathing became even once more, until he’d clearly fallen back into sleep. Martin didn’t know quite what to do, but Jon was warm and he was tired, so slowly, he let himself lean into the touch and close his eyes. 

He drifted off to sleep, thinking about all the things he had yet to say, and this time he didn’t dream.

* * *

Jon woke up to an empty bed. The sheets next to him were cold and he was chilly despite the multiple layers of warm blankets piled on top of him. He sat up quickly, fighting off a sudden surge of panic that he logically knew was entirely irrational. He didn't know how long he’d been asleep, but he knew nothing bad could have happened. He would have woken up. He _definitely_ would have woken up. 

Pulling an oversized sweatshirt emblazoned with some long faded logo on over his head, Jon padded down the creaky hallway and poked into the kitchen. The tension leaked immediately from his aching shoulders as soon as he saw Martin, standing by the oven. He had the kettle on, and two mostly-clean mugs were laid out on the counter. 

“Hi,” Jon said quietly. 

Martin startled slightly and turned around, the deer-in-headlights expression on his face subsiding instantly. “Hi,” he said. 

Jon sidled across the small kitchen and cautiously laid a hand on Martin’s elbow. He squinted up at him. “How are you feeling?”

“A lot better, actually,” Martin said. He smiled and turned back to the kettle.

“Yeah?” 

Martin just hummed slightly in response and gestured for Jon to sit down at the rickety table in the corner. Jon sat, and a few moments later, Martin brought over two steaming mugs. Jon took his eagerly and cupped his hands around it, seeping in the warmth. The mug was a faded white, advertising a local bookshop from the town nearby. It was chipped on the handle. Martin sat across from him, cupping his own mug, a plain navy blue one, and for a while, they were quiet. Jon carefully sipped his tea, which was still quite hot, but as always, Martin had made it perfectly. 

Martin eventually spoke. “I…I don’t know if I ever thanked you,” he started slowly. Jon looked up, perplexed. 

“For what?” 

“For-” Martin scoffed. “For getting me out of the Lonely? Saving me from just dissolving into that awful white fog? I mean, what else? And I…you didn’t _need_ to do that. You really shouldn’t have, actually. So, thank you.”

Jon stared at him. “What do you - why wouldn’t I - of _course,_ I needed to - Martin, you - you know I -”

“You could have escaped up here by yourself,” Martin said firmly, “and it would have been quicker. Safer. You didn’t have to waste time and risk your life getting me out of the Lonely.” 

“ _Martin._ ”

“Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. I really appreciate it. Obviously.” Martin chuckled weakly and stared down at his tea. Jon kept staring, a thousand different thoughts running around in his brain until-

“You know I wouldn’t have come here without you?” The words suddenly tumbled out of him. Martin looked up at Jon sharply but didn’t say anything. Jon put his tea down, ran his fingers through his tangled hair. “I didn’t decide to go after you in the Lonely. It wasn’t...it wasn’t a choice I made.” 

Martin’s softening expression dropped instantly. “Are you - are you saying that Elias, or somebody, _made_ you-”

“ _What?_ No! I’m saying that, that it wasn’t-” Jon reached across the table, set his hand on top of Martin’s, because he had to help him understand- “there wasn’t a choice to make. I couldn’t have escaped the Institute without you because it wouldn’t _be_ escaping. It wouldn’t - if I was leaving, I needed you with me. Don’t you kn- there’s nothing else I could have done differently. Nothing I _would_ have done differently, Martin.” Jon looked down at his cooling tea and let out a sigh. His hand was still resting on Martin’s. 

“Oh,” Martin said. A thick silence began to fill the air, and Jon wondered if he’d somehow managed to say the wrong thing. He tried to read Martin’s indecipherable expression, tried to know what he was thinking without Knowing it. 

He was beginning to wonder if he should perhaps move his hand back, if the moment had stretched on too long, when Martin moved his own hand, turning it over and clasping onto Jon’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Martin looked up and offered Jon a tentative smile, which Jon shyly returned. 

They drank the rest of their tea in comfortable silence. 

The morning was spent cleaning and unpacking. Jon scrubbed the bathroom of its grime and Martin dusted the bedroom and the kitchen and double-checked all its cabinets for any supplies or old food rations that might not have expired yet. They both eventually ended up together in the front room, with Jon taking a turn at dusting with the fireplace mantle and the mostly empty bookshelf in the corner, and Martin attempting to use an ancient vacuum he’d found tucked away in a closet on the large woven rug, without any real success. By the time they’d both collapsed onto the sagging couch, exhausted, Jon couldn’t help but admire how they’d started to turn the safe house from an empty building into something an awful lot closer to a home. The thought brought a small smile to his lips and he gladly soaked it all in. Martin on the couch next to him, half-asleep, the home they’d built up around them, and the strange bubble of safety they’d created, the latter of which, though, he refused to inspect too carefully for fear of it popping. 

“Anyways,” Jon said, teasingly, much later, as the afternoon sun filtered lazily into the bedroom, “don’t tell me the phonebox down there doesn’t appeal to your retro aesthetic.” 

Martin paused, still standing in the doorway. “It - might. Maybe.” He zipped up his bag before continuing. “You’ll be okay here?” 

While the safe house might have been much cozier now and significantly less dusty, the cabinets were still bare and the meager supplies they’d managed to grab from their flats were quickly running out. Martin had insisted on heading into the village to pick up provisions alone, however, primarily to try and prevent Jon from accidentally taking a statement as a snack from an unwilling villager. 

Jon knew he was probably right, despite the gnawing concern roaming around inside his mind whenever he thought about Martin being on his own for more than a few minutes. But he also knew he trusted Martin. 

“I’ll be fine,” Jon said. He clicked off the tape recorder he’d been testing out. “Will you be okay? The village is a bit of a walk from here.” 

“I’ll be fine, Jon. Really. I…I _am_ feeling a lot better. A lot more myself.” 

Jon nodded. “Be careful,” he said. 

“Of course,” Martin replied, “and you stay safe.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jon said. 

Martin looked at him. “I know,” he said, and turned back down the hallway. 

Jon listened as his footsteps faded, and as the front door creaked open and shut with a click. He stood up from the bed, resisting the urge to go into the front room and watch as Martin walked farther and farther away from the cottage, alone. Instead, he meandered slowly into the kitchen. He opened and closed a few cabinets, just to have something to do, and admired how impressively empty they were aside from a few cobwebs. Which belonged to normal spiders. Jon had to believe that, at least, that this tucked-away cottage in Scotland was safe, and not touched by the Web. 

He remembered that Martin had packed some tea though, and maybe that’d help with his nerves while Martin was out, and at least help to take the edge off of the hunger beginning to knaw deep in his stomach. He rifled through a few more shelves and cabinets, even double-checking the fridge, just in case, before finally happening to glance at the faded tin sitting out on the kitchen table.

As he made tea, Jon started to pay attention to the house around him, now that he wasn’t too busy cleaning or too full of bone-deep exhaustion. He was still uncomfortably surprised by how personal it all seemed, like he was expecting a house with no life inside it at all. Even more surprising, he thought, taking his tea out to the front room and sitting on the tattered couch, was how well he could picture Daisy here. He could see her flipping through the few books she had placed above the fireplace, or cooking some easy prep meals in the kitchen, or tuning into _The Archers_ on that ancient radio in the bedroom. Even though he’d never actually seen Daisy here, when looking around, it felt like she could have just gone out for a stroll. 

Jon gripped his hands a little tighter around the warm mug, trying to press into the heat and soak it wholly into himself, trying not to think too hard about everything Basira had told him. 

Daisy wasn’t dead. Maybe that was the worst part. That Daisy wasn’t dead, not yet, not really, but she was gone. Or, like Basira said, she _had_ to be gone. There was nothing left of the Daisy they knew, nothing they would be able to salvage or save. She’d given in to the one thing she’d been trying so hard to resist these past few months, the one thing Jon had seen haunting her, and she’d done it - why? To give Jon more time, to protect him and Basira from some crazed vampire hunters and something that wasn’t ever really Sasha, or maybe just because she couldn’t resist it any longer, not in the heat of the battle. 

Did that make it Jon’s fault that she was gone? 

Jon stood up and crossed the room, staring at the titles stacked on the unlit fireplace. Nothing he was even remotely interested in reading, except for the fact that Daisy must have loved them, to keep them here in this house. He took a sip of his tea, and the warmth rushed through his body. He wondered, recklessly, where Daisy was at that moment, and could immediately feel the Eye scratching with the knowledge at the back of his skull. Jon squeezed his eyes shut, all of them, and took a deep, shuddering breath. He didn’t _really_ want to know, and he most certainly did not want to Know. The knowledge the Eye was offering eventually melted back into nothing, the scratching going back to that softer but ever-present staticky hum in his brain. 

So Daisy was gone, and Jon was stuck in her old house, trying to ignore all the ways she lingered in the half-empty rooms. Jon took another sip of tea, and wandered back to the couch. He curled up at one end, positioned himself so he could see the street out the window, and waited for Martin to get back. 

* * *

Martin was doing well on his own. He didn’t like it, of course, but that was a good sign now, wasn’t it, actually disliking the loneliness? He’d had an easier time in the village than he thought, chatting effortlessly with the locals before checking in with Basira using the old phone box, which, he had to admit, did feel very fun to use despite the circumstances. 

He was nearly back to the safehouse, groceries in hand, warm afternoon sun falling onto his skin, when he saw it out of the corner of his eye. The gentle lap of a distant wave, the thick white fog rolling in over it. He stopped instantly by the side of the road, and squeezed his eyes shut. He was just seeing things. Maybe it was just normal fog. 

But the staticky roar of the tide was growing in his ears, the battering waves suddenly rushing in around him. He didn’t remember dropping the groceries, but heard them crashing to the ground by his feet. Martin raised his hands to his head, covering his ears to drown out the deafening ocean and he felt his knees begin to buckle and god, this was it, wasn’t it? The Lonely had tricked him into a false sense of security, lured him in with that overwhelming feeling of belonging he’d gotten waking up next to Jon, just enough to make him feel safe to go shopping on his own, and now, here, on the side of the road, in a matter of seconds, Martin was going to be enveloped in fog and taken away again.

He wouldn’t ever get to tell Jon _anything,_ not for himself, and Jon would have no clue what happened, and he wouldn't ever even get these groceries back to him, and-

_Martin was in the middle of the ocean. He supposed he wouldn’t mind being in the Lonely forever. It was existence without the weight of life. There was nothing to see but pale mist stretching limitless in every direction. Nothing to hear but the distant shore. Nothing to feel but - well. Nothing to feel at all. Nothing to pass the time, nothing to feel the time passing. No one to speak to. No one to hear him. No one to-_

_“Tell me, or I will_ rip it out of you.”

_But that was a voice. There was a voice and suddenly, Martin wasn’t alone anymore. Martin wasn’t alone, which meant-_

“Martin!” The tide began to recede suddenly and Martin lowered his hands. He risked cracking open his eyes and there, standing at the edges of the fog rolling relentlessly around Martin, was the one person he never thought he’d see again. 

“Jon?” 

“Hey, it’s me, I’m here, I came,” Jon said, coming closer and closer until his hands were weighing down Martin’s shivering shoulders, “I saw you from the window. What…?”

Martin just shook his head, barely holding back the fresh flood of sobs that seemed to be rising up his throat, and reached out to hold onto Jon. His hands found themselves clumsily gripping the sleeve of Jon’s sweater, and he blinked heavily as tears sprang into his eyes. Jon seemed to understand, though, and as he picked up the fallen groceries, he held onto Martin and let Martin hold onto him. They stumbled back to the cottage, which was embarrassingly closer than Martin had realized. Even as they awkwardly shuffled in through the front door, and dropped the groceries in the kitchen, Jon refused to let go of Martin. He led him down into the bedroom and grabbed the thick quilt from the end of the bed, pulling it tight around Martin’s shoulders. 

“Thank you,” Martin whispered, glad to find he seemed to have some control over his voice again. 

“What happened?” Jon asked, staring up, seeming to examine every line of Martin’s face. “I looked out the window and saw you just… stop in the middle of the road.”

“The Lonely won’t give up on me, I guess,” Martin said, “I was just in the road and I saw the fog just rolling in and I just-” He gestured weakly with his hand and attempted a laugh that quickly turned into a sob. As he tried to mop up the tears running relentlessly down his cheeks, a swooping sense of shame started to fill his stomach. He was crying, again, over a problem he thought he’d managed to fix. He sniffled. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Jon said, reaching up to fix the quilt, “it wasn’t ever going to disappear overnight, yeah?” 

Martin gave a noncommittal sound, furiously rubbing at his rebelliously teary eyes. 

“And for now, I think maybe shopping trips together aren’t the most terrible idea, yeah?” Jon reached out and ran a hand up and down Martin’s arm. “I’ll be there for you, and you can keep an eye on me.” 

“Yeah,” Martin said, “yeah, that’s - it’s just - like, Christ, will I ever be able to be alone again? Is that fog just going to surround me every time I go somewhere by myself, I mean-” He stopped and closed his eyes. He was so tired. 

“It’s barely been a day,” Jon reminded him, “and Lukas spent months slowly pushing you as far into it as he could. It’s going to take time, but I promise I will be here, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Martin said again. He looked down at his agitated hands and then back up, into the weight of Jon’s earnest gaze. 

“I was thinking about starting dinner,” Jon said, “if you want to come into the kitchen?” 

“Can we-” Martin inhaled shakily- “can we just stay here a few more minutes?” 

“Of course,” Jon said immediately. He reached out to adjust the quilt again, and looked at Martin, and smiled.

Jon eventually drifted off into the kitchen by himself, but only because Martin refused to bring the quilt out of the bedroom for fear of dirtying it, and only because he assured Jon a million times over he’d come into the kitchen at the first glimpse of any fog. 

But, Martin thought privately, he didn’t think that would happen. Even without Jon physically in the bedroom, he still felt him everywhere.

What eventually lured Martin out from under the quilt and down the hall was the smell of whatever Jon was cooking floating in from the kitchen. Martin shuffled down the hallway in socked feet, his hungry stomach happily following the smell, but when Martin poked his head in, the kitchen was empty. It still smelled delicious, but Jon wasn’t there. 

But when Martin came back out of the kitchen and turned his head, he found Jon sitting on the rug in the front room, staring intensely into the fireplace as the dying embers glowed in the logs. He walked over, plopped beside him, and laid a hand on Jon’s arm. Jon tore his gaze from the fireplace and turned to Martin in an instant, clearly worried. 

“Is everything alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Martin said, “just came to check on dinner, but I thought you were busy cooking. Everything alright with you?”

Jon shook his head. “The pasta is in the oven for another half hour, I’m…just thinking about Daisy, again, I guess.” 

“We are in her safe house,” Martin said. Jon let out a humorless laugh. 

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? I keep seeing her everywhere in this house and I can’t stop thinking about what she _did_ and I-” His voice cracked and he shook his head again, instead just drawing his knees to his chest and letting out a long sigh that caused a shiver to rattle through his thin frame. “I’m sorry,” he added in a low murmur, “I’m supposed to be taking care of you right now, not weighing you down with even more…issues from me.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Martin said immediately. Jon gave a dry chuckle at that. 

“I’ll try,” he said. Then he went quiet again, looking back into the fireplace. Martin’s hand was still resting on Jon’s arm, but he tentatively moved it around his shoulder, and pulled Jon into his side. For a moment he was fearful Jon would pull away, irritated or embarrassed, but he just leaned into the touch, and dropped a scarred hand on Martin’s knee. 

“Do you-” Martin cleared his throat- “do you want to tell me about her?”

Jon shifted to peer up at him. “What?” 

“I - I just thought,” Martin stammered, “since I, I didn’t know her that well, that if you wanted to talk about her, well, I don’t know, maybe it would help? If you think it would help? You could talk about her. I-If you wanted to.” 

Jon hummed in the back of his throat and he let his head fall against Martin’s chest. “She liked _The Archers,_ ” he started. 

Martin couldn’t help laughing. “She did not.”

“She did!” Jon protested, but he was laughing again now, too. “Basira mentioned it once, before - uh, anyway, she - when we were stuck in the Buried, me and Daisy, when we were sure we wouldn’t be able to get back, when my anchor, um - she was just glad to not be alone anymore. The Buried is…so much worse when you’re alone, and she spent _months_ down there by herself. I don’t know how…” He exhaled, a slow and ragged breath. 

“And then you got her out,” Martin said, “despite how _stupidly_ impulsive your plan was.” 

“And then I got her out,” Jon agreed, “and she was different. She’d turned her back on the Hunt, and I got to know who she was without it.” 

“And?”

“And…she was smart, occasionally managed to be funny, and she somehow kept me sane during…during some of the most difficult months I’ve had at the Archives. Even when I…well. She wouldn’t let me wallow alone in my own self-pity.” Jon was smiling now, Martin could hear it in his voice. “She was…she was my friend.” 

* * *

Dinner was Jon’s latest attempt at baked ziti. He wasn’t actually sure how good it had come out, but Martin didn’t complain and in fact ate quite a bit of it, although whether that was out of politeness or simply just being quite hungry after the last couple days, Jon didn’t know. 

The sun outside was only just beginning to set, so the front room of the safehouse was flooded with golden light that, Jon couldn’t help but notice, pooled quite nicely in Martin’s eyes. Jon quickly directed his gaze to the rolling hills outside before Martin looked up from his food and caught Jon staring. It really was a gorgeous view outside as well, though. The fields seem to go on and on, just endless grass and peaceful farmland stretching out in every direction, a far cry from the cramped and clamorous street corners of London. 

“I was wondering,” Martin started, and Jon promptly looked back to him, “whether you’d want to go for a walk after dinner - before the sun goes down? I, ah, the countryside here is beautiful and - I even saw some cows.” 

“Cows?” 

“Yeah!” Martin beamed, and Jon couldn’t help but melt a little at the sight. “ _Real_ big fluffy ones.” 

“Well,” Jon said, “I’m actually about done with this if you’re-?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m pretty much finished here-”

They bundled up with coats and scarves and gloves, as the late September evenings were now arriving accompanied with a biting chill and an unfortunately strong breeze. Martin led them out of the cottage and down the road towards the village, filling Jon in on everything he’d seen during his short trip to the village, the bookstore, the bakery, the flower shop, and the lovely older woman he’d met while attempting to find the produce aisle. Jon _was_ mostly listening, but was also contentedly watching the animated way Martin was speaking, grinning and using his hands, and admiring the blush tinging his cold cheeks. There was barely a trace of grey left on him now, despite the way he’d looked this afternoon. When Jon had seen him flickering in and out like static on a television…well, he was just very lucky he had decided to wait by the window, and that Martin was just in his line of sight.

Now they were walking together, shoulders bumping, through the grass, by the side of the gravel road. Martin still seemed to have an idea of where he was going, and Jon was more than happy to quietly follow him. The sun had dipped lower still, the golden flush of light that covered the hills deepening into a rosy flush in the afterglow. It had been a long time since Jon had really been able to appreciate a sunset, and he reveled in the moment, drinking in every second and trying to see all of it at once - wishing he could just press pause on the moment and indulge himself on the way the hills practically glowed, how the pinkish light bounced off Martin’s hair and cheeks, how despite the wintry air whipping through his tangled hair, all he felt was warm inside.

Martin had stopped, and Jon nearly walked into him. He blinked. They were beside a simple wooden fence now, the grass reaching up past their knees in clumps. Jon looked past the fence, and there the cows were. Martin was right, they really were spectacularly fluffy in a way he hadn’t seen before. Not that he’d really seen many cows to begin with. The nearest cow was a deep and rich brown, its long and shaggy fur having grown far past its eyes, making it look quite delightful as it leaned down to chew some grass. 

“How can they all see?” Jon asked. Martin snickered and glanced over at Jon. 

“I mean, you manage,” he said, barely biting down on his smile. Jon turned to him, eyebrows raised with all the pompous air of someone highly offended, and in a half-hearted but completely theatrical manner, attempted to get his own flyaway hair out of his eyes. 

“I have no idea what you mean,” he responded primly, after he was, predictably, highly unsuccessful. 

Martin began laughing at that and Jon turned back towards the cows and closed his eyes, smiling, losing himself a little in that laugh - full and hearty, completely carefree. He could only hope to be lucky enough to hear it every day.

When he looked back at Martin a few minutes later, he was staring out at the cows as well. Two of them out in the field had fallen asleep, leaning against each other, while a calf pranced happily by. It seemed even fluffier than the adult cows, if that could even be possible, and it stuck out a pink tongue as it leaned down for some more grass.

“Look.” Jon pointed. “It’s a baby.” 

“It’s so small,” Martin said, cooing. 

“It’s really not,” Jon said, “Scottish calves can often weigh up to-” He stopped instantly, realizing what he’d let in when he let his guard down. He struggled for a second, trying to just mentally shut the door on the Eye. It wasn’t allowed to have this moment, he thought fiercely, and eventually, he felt its grip loosen. 

Jon sighed and let the tension in his shoulders drop, shifting on his feet before looking sheepishly back up at Martin. 

“Jon-” 

“It’s fine. It is!” Jon insisted, seeing the dismayed expression beginning to creep its way onto Martin’s face. “It was just a - a useless piece of trivia. It’s gone, and I - I’m not letting it in, not here. Not _now._ ” 

Martin paused before he nodded. “Okay,” he said. He turned back to the fields. They were quiet for some time, just watching the cows graze and bump heads, as the brief rosy glow of the sunset faded into a cool blue, blanketing the fields all around them. Jon was beginning to wonder if maybe they should head back to the safehouse, before all the light disappeared completely. Beside him, Martin leaned onto the fence and took an unsteady breath. 

“I love you, you know,” he said. Jon instantly tore his eyes off the nearest cow and turned to him. Every bone in his body suddenly felt heavier, like Martin’s words were dragging him closer to the earth. 

“Martin…” he started. 

“And I know you do _know,_ or you’ve heard, or guessed, or whatever,” Martin continued, still looking out at the field, “but I needed to tell you. Properly. Not from stupid office rumors or like…whatever I said in the Lonely.” 

“You don’t remember?” 

Martin let out a short frustrated sound. “Barely. I remember feeling like I confessed something, presumably to you, but now it’s all just…heh, just _foggy,_ I suppose. Easy to guess what it might have been, though. Anyway I - I don’t know how you - I just, you don’t need to - I just needed you to know. We almost died, I almost faded away, _again,_ and I figured maybe this time around I should be more honest about everything. At least try to gain some control in when I get to say important things.” 

“Right,” Jon said, “right, I-”

“You don’t have to say anything back, it’s fine, really, I don’t want anything to change or to, um, make you uncomfortable, I just - I had to say something before I-”

“ _Martin,_ ” Jon repeated. He couldn’t think of a single other thing to say, so he laid a hand on Martin’s arm, and finally, Martin actually turned to look at him. He had a sort of apprehensive but wistful expression on his face, a mostly sad half-smile lingering on his lips, and eyes that looked at Jon with some unspeakable tenderness. Jon bit his lip and reached up, hesitantly placing his scarred hand on Martin’s cheek. Martin leaned immediately into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. Jon opened his mouth to speak but realized he still had no idea what to say. 

What was he supposed to say that could possibly articulate how he felt like Martin didn’t complete him exactly, but instead wrapped him up whole, warm and enveloping, a steady presence Jon could lean on even when Martin wasn’t there? Or how he felt like Martin’s gentle eyes could see straight through him, could strip him down to his spine and incomplete ribcage, how Martin must know Jon down to his core, how Jon wasn’t really himself without him? Then Jon couldn’t stop thinking about how he would quite like to spend the rest of his life trying his best to make dinner for Martin, and watch him pretend that it was actually quite good, (well, maybe just decent, but definitely edible,) how Martin was the first person on his mind when he woke from his coma, even with Basira and Georgie standing over him, and how he never wanted to wake up again without knowing that Martin was right there beside him or at least in the next room making his usual exemplary tea. Even better, he wanted to sneakily wake up early to surprise Martin by attempting to make him tea for a change. He was quite sure he could spend a lifetime counting Martin’s freckles and he wouldn’t ever get bored, not to mention that going back into the Lonely terrified him more than anything, and he’d do it a million times over, with no hesitation, just to spend one more day with Martin. 

But Jon couldn’t find a way to say all this, not really. Not in a way that would matter, in a way that wouldn’t end up sounding clunky and forced. So instead he brushed his thumb lightly across Martin’s cheek, causing them both to sigh gently and, before he could lose his nerve, Jon leaned up and kissed him. 

It was a little clumsy, as Jon was significantly shorter than Martin and had to stand precariously on his tiptoes, and suddenly he worried he was a little too earnest or too quick, so he moved back, after what felt like all too short a moment, to properly gauge Martin’s reaction. His expression was difficult to properly make out as night had by then all but completely fallen, but it seemed like he was just staring. Jon moved his hands away and quickly clasped them behind his back, rocking slowly on his heels. 

“Was that okay?” he asked. 

Martin gave a short laugh of disbelief. “Was that…yeah, it - yes, _yes,_ that was okay, that was-” His voice caught and Jon saw with rising alarm that Martin was quickly rubbing away more tears. Before he could think of what to do, what to say, Martin had leaned down and pulled him into a fierce hug, arms tight against Jon’s thin frame. Jon stood stock-still for a moment before hastily extracting his own arms from his sides and wrapping them around Martin, burying his face in his neck, and he remembered something.

“I love you, too,” Jon whispered, so quiet he wasn’t sure if Martin would even be able to hear. In response, though, Martin just held him a little tighter.

They stayed like that for what was forever or maybe just five minutes, clutching onto each other while they knew they still could. Beyond the gate, the cows kept grazing. 

* * *

_“I…I was on my own,” Martin began, the past few months finally catching up with him all at once, a sob building up in his throat. “I was all on my own.”_

_“Not anymore,” Jon promised. He stood up and held out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”_

_“How?” Martin asked. He couldn’t see any end to the bleak foggy landscape surrounding the two of them._

_Jon smiled, an expression more gentle and tender than Martin had ever seen on his face before, and took his hand, helping him up. “Don’t worry. I know the way.”_

_Martin stood and Jon began to lead them away. Somewhere out in the unending fog, Martin could swear he heard a tape recorder click off._

**Author's Note:**

> i looked up what the archers was for this and it just made me love daisy even more 
> 
> title & little intro lyrics are both from skulls by bastille !! 
> 
> anyway thank u for reading !!! if u want to watch as i continue to think about jonmartin 24/7 u can find me on tumblr [@thirteenthdyke](https://thirteenthdyke.tumblr.com) !


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